The Warmest Welcome
by queenofowls
Summary: One hundred eighty three days have passed since Byleth has last seen her husband, Captain Dedue Molinaro of the Knights of Seiros. Now, at last, she has the chance to give him both a warm welcome with a nostalgic taste of home. [Dedue/f!Byleth]


**/Written for Dedue Week | Day 2 Prompt: Home/**

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Andouille stew.

She'd first heard of the Duscur dish on a visit from the Fede, Duscur nomads who'd very recently chosen to make the monastery a stop on their transient journey through Fódlan. It'd perplexed, then pleased her to hear reports of their colorful tents and scarves gradually drawing nearer to the great fortress-she had not seen them since her own journey to Duscur by Dedue's side and the memories of the hospitable people filled her with curiosity. It had not come as a surprise for them to request Dedue, but upon delivering the disappointing news that he is away on a diplomatic mission in Brigid, she had not expected that their tents to stay. Not that it had bothered her at the time: the market stalls they'd set up right outside of the monastery gate were too interesting to resist and she quickly found herself amongst the other buyers.

It had been there, in that very market that she'd discovered the book tent manned by Baltiss, the man she remembers as chef of the nomad's camp. In actuality, she cannot read the curling print of the Duscur language. It amazes her how formally spoken Duscur could be mutually intelligible when the letters are nothing alike, but strangely feels too shy to ask the question of Dedue anyway. Baltiss had noted her interest then and smiled as his single eye lit up with recognition. "Ah. The Cuencan's wife. I have a gift for you," he'd said, pulling out a carefully wrapped parcel from beneath his seller's table. "Please open." And so she had, only to reveal... another book, the cover having the same curling print as all of the others.

She was too polite to tell him that she could not read it, but he must've noted the way that her expression did not change with recognition, because he'd reached out and taken the book from her gingerly, flipping through the pages to the recipe she is painstakingly preparing now.

"From Cuenca." Her eyes had widened for a moment before straying towards Baltiss with a firm serious nod. His smile was kind, golden eyes bright with with warmth and depth as they glowed in the richness of his deep skin. "If you make this, maybe will be like the taste of home for Dedue, yes?" She nods again, staring down at the page. The print is not in a language she can read, but she can see that beneath it, by hand, the ingredients are written in a script that she understands.

"This is really... for me?"

"Yes." Baltiss had shut the book and returned it to her. "Careful to check the fire and keep stirring. Must not too high, else, bottom will burn."

In the low light of the Garreg Mach's kitchens, she sets the bowls aside, turning back towards the stove to stirring the pot carefully. It's late and the hour is one during which she normally would have been buried in her sheets, but tonight is different.

Tonight, she waits for his return from Brigid on a mission to establish and restore fragile relations as they delivered the bones of their princess to her grandfather, its king. His letters of the distant land were taciturn and brief, but when she'd read them they filled her with a strange longing for his comforting presence.

_Byleth-_

_It is warm here. Unbearably so. I have never felt so far away from home as I do now._

_His Majesty is ill. Heatstroke, the local doctors have declared. He will not die, but his skin is terribly red and warm to the touch. He tells me not to worry but I am afraid such is not in my nature._

_The camellia should be in bloom by now. I am sorry to miss its budding._

_I hope you are not too lonely._

_Yours,_  
_Dedue_

His letters speak rarely of himself and more often of his circumstances, which she understands but... wishes he would say something of his own status. Is he eating well? Is he enduring heatstroke of his own? And how did he take to the boat ride to the island?

They are things she has wondered in her days at the monastery, navigating the halls of the school with crisp footsteps to check on the year's the newly enrolled students of the officers' academy. The classroom of the Black Eagles is hauntingly empty, but she looks forward to the day that it, too, will be filled with young minds, eager to learn.

She stirs the pot again and watches the stew bubble, her mind far away.

_Petal-_

_I think you would like it here. The clothing is colorful and the people are bright. The food is as hot as the weather, which I find odd. Would it not be best to eat something cool in such temperatures?_

_I asked the question, but it was met with laughter. I am afraid I do not understand the humor here._

_In your last letter, you mentioned feeling tired lately._

_I hope that you are sleeping well now._

_Yours,_  
_Dedue_

"I'm home."

There is no mistaking his voice behind her.

She glances over her shoulder and nods. It has been one-hundred and eighty-three days since she has seen him last, and she has felt every passing minute as though it were an hour. "Welcome home, Dedue." Her voice sounds strangely stiff, even to her own ears. In truth, she is unsure of what face to show him. She has imagined this reunion so many ways that it feels as though her mind cannot settle on one to welcome him home. If her heart could beat, she is certain she would feel it trembling in her chest, especially when she feels him pressed against her back, his nose in her hair.

His arms slip around her stomach.

"I have returned safely." Dedue's voice is soft, the sound vibrating against her. Cold water from his hair spatters lightly on her shoulder, the gentle scent of his soap a telltale sign that he has already changed clothes and bathed, to her surprise.

She takes a deep slow breath, trying to ignore his familiar, intoxicating scent.

The hour is late, yes, but there are no students about. There is no one about, save the Knights of Seiros appointed to patrol the grounds. At any minute, someone could come in, yet... There is no small part of her that wishes to turn around and express just how deeply she has missed him. Still, if someone saw the Archbishop herself in such a compromising position, she could only hear the lectures from Seteth for the next decade.

Byleth thinks to herself. She can withstand a dinner, can't she?

Dedue, uncertain as to why she does not respond, peers curiously into the pot. "What are you preparing?"

Byleth opens her mouth to answer directly, then changes her mind. "Can you tell?" She feels his chest rise against her as he inhales deeply, then pauses as he holds it in.

Leaning downwards over her shoulder, he removes one of his hands from around her to waft the small towards his face. "Andouille...? But how could you learn to make...?" He trails off, noting the open recipe book, the careful notes therewithin. "My... mother used to make this. In the spring, before the weather was warm." There is a pause as Dedue nuzzles the side of her face, holding her more tightly against him. "Is it finished, then?"

Byleth nods, then turns off the flame. "Would you like to taste?" He nods, reluctantly pulling away to open the cabinets and take out the dishes needed for them to eat from. Of course, he would rather kiss her at the very least, but... is she so intent on the meal? He turns to hand her a spoon, puzzling over her lackluster reaction, and notes she is staring at him. Dedue tilts his head, wondering on how he can ask what he wishes to know as he leans against the counter.

When he held her, she certainly leaned into his arms, so he cannot fathom that she is angry, but this strange sense of restraint... He wonders what causes it as his eyes trace his wife's form.

It is one he has dreamt of holding for an age.

Byleth averts her gaze quickly-_mysteriously, he thinks_-and dips into the pot, cradling the spoon as she blows cool air into its contents, guiding it towards him. Dedue opens his mouth obligingly.

Right away, the taste on his tongue stirs something in his chest. It has been years-more than a decade that he has tasted Andouille stew, the hearty flavor of zesty tomato and smoked meats... even the heady smell of aromatics is nostalgic.

Garlic, onion, bell pepper, celery...

For a certainty, it tastes like home more than even this moment does.

Noting his expression, Byleth's own softens. "More?" He nods wordlessly as she takes the spoon meant for her and does the same.

His height makes them uncoordinated and he feels the stew smear onto his upper lip as she pulls the spoon from his lips. Without thinking, she reaches up to wipe the mess from his lips, her thumbs grazing across its surface for a moment. He pauses, watching her pull her hand away and imagining that he takes her hand into his own and draws it towards his own mouth and waiting tongue.

Dedue does not.

She wipes her hand on a clean cloth, then looks up at him steadily. "I wanted to welcome you home," she says quietly. She does not say more, but there is an intent in her eyes that tells him the words that her lips do not.

She missed him these months.

Dedue cannot help himself. He gathers her face in his hands and draws her forward. Her eyes flutter shut, but right as his lips almost touch against hers, her eyes open, startling him.

"We can't."

_Can't...?_

"Are you..." he puzzles over the words before settling on one he feels will not cause offense as he draws away, "tired?" He could understand if she were stopping him from doing more than kissing since they had certainly been stopped by inconvenient times of the month before, but... for such a light touch, he cannot fathom that as the reason she stops him.

"No," she says unsteadily, "But the students... I wrote in one of my letters-"

"Ah." All at once, it dawns on him what she has been trying to avoid. _The Officers' Academy_... In the time that he has been gone, it has been re-opened in part, and they are now in a public space. He can feel himself backing away, glancing around himself to see if any students are about.

There is still no one, but he can feel himself sobering, almost embarrassed at himself. Surely he can wait until they are alone to... to have a reunion in full. Byleth lets out a sigh, her gaze dropping to the ground for a moment, her grip on the ladle used to stir the pot a tight fist.

Dedue folds his hands behind his back as she turns back towards the stove, scooping rice into their bowls. "You're right. We shouldn't." _Not here, anyway._ He brushes her hair behind her ear to affirm the thought to himself, watching as Byleth stills for the briefest of moments before she carefully eases the stew onto the rice. There is a part of them that is still filled with wonder at the fact that he has the power to stir her heart, grateful even that he has found a person in his world who could look at him as someone desirable and precious.

Six months...

His eyes take her in. She's cut her hair again, the feathery, choppy layers hovering above her shoulders. She doesn't look as though she has lost weight, so perhaps the time was not too stressful... In her letters, she seems happy if lonely and he poured over the words more times than he would care to admit to himself. There are a few that he can say by rote memory, simply because of the number of times he read them.

Her scent lacks the usual smell of flowers and soil, likely because she has been much too busy to visit the space. He imagines the moment they will touch that soil again, his eyes drift back to the edges of her hair.

The nightgown she wears is delicately embroidered, the material of her shoulders sheer. He can see the skin of the nape of her neck clearly, her hair short enough not to obstruct his view. In his mind's eye, he brushes the hair out of the way and presses his lips to the ridges on the back of her neck, touching the soft skin with light gentle touches of his lips.

He doesn't realize he is staring until Byleth looks at him, and quickly, Dedue breaks her gaze, drawing close to reach for a bowl as he clears his throat mildly. He avoids her eyes completely, his heart beating steadily in his chest. She has prepared a meal for him. That should be enough, for now.

But it is not.

How many nights had he stared at the oiled wooden ceilings of Brigid, alone in a bed wide enough for two?

It is certainly not enough. He reaches out for her hand, unable to tear his eyes from her lips even as he calls out her name. "Byleth-" He's not sure what he is going to say, but it doesn't matter. Her lips are against his, arms around his neck as she kisses him deeply, hungrily, painfully. The part of him that says he should resist falls silent for a moment as her tongue grazes his lips as his mouth falls open. His hands stroke through her hair before it returns, his desire for order.

Dedue breaks the kiss, his voice firm. "Byleth. We cannot do this here." She doesn't even open her eyes fully.

"Dedue."

But he is already pulling away, determined to keep their kisses in the proper place. "Byleth, you know that-"

Byleth only says one more word-whispers it really-but its power is unparalleled, especially paired with heavy-lidded eyes and a voice tinged with what almost sounds like pain.

_"Please."_

It is as if she knows that he would give her anything if she only asked. His brow furrows as his lips finds hers again. As upstanding of a moral code as he works to maintain, when it comes to the requests of his wife, Dedue finds himself utterly unable to act wisely. Not when he has missed this touch for half of a year with only exchanges of paper and inarticulate words that could never express his thoughts properly.

He angles his head to deepen the kiss, his neck aching with the effort to get him as close as possible. Her mouth is plush and warm and inviting. For a long moment, he is uncertain as to whether he is indulging her or himself, but he savors her touch as her hands trail down from his neck to his face, thumbs grazing his skin.

When Dedue pulls away again-because certainly, Byleth makes no effort to-his voice is rough, hoarse even, as he tries... he _fails_ to sound stern. "Did you not say..." He trails off at her expression, the corners of Byleth's mouth tilted upwards before she presses her face into his chest, arms around his torso. He strokes her hair. _Surely she will not protest if he suggests taking their meal to their bedroom._ He lets out a quiet breath as she murmurs into his chest.

"Welcome home, Dedue." He looks down at her crown of pale green hair, his gaze then drifting to the pot full of Andouille stew. It is a meal he has not tasted in an age, one that tastes of home, and he cannot help but wonder when he became worthy of such gifts.

He holds Byleth close and can scarcely believe it. Dedue Molinaro feels, in a word, loved.

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**This is late but I got sick for the official Dedue Week so... I'll be writing these still (just late.)**

**I plan on doing all of the prompts so stay tuned. :^)**


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